to stretch the rope when the rope is new
by RPGgirl514
Summary: Allan a Dale's been in tight spots before, but he never thought he'd hang. Allan's POV during the gallows scene in the pilot. Episode tag for 01x01 Will You Tolerate This?


_A/N: This is Allan a Dale's point of view during the last bit of 01x01, "Will You Tolerate This?" As soon as Robin shouted "People of Nottingham!" and cut down Allan with just an arrow I fell in love with this show. The title is from "The Hangman", a poem by Maurice Ogden, which is amazingly chilling and you should check it out. Enjoy!_

* * *

"Oy, then, what're you lot in for?"

The oldest one snorts under his breath. He may be older than the other two, but he is still young - younger than Allan, anyway - and he has just the suggestion of a mustache on his upper lip. Far too young to hang. But even now Allan is fairly sure the sheriff is just bluffing: holding the gallows over their heads (no pun intended) to make their ultimate punishment appear more benevolent.

"Being in the wrong place at the wrong time," Mustache says bitterly.

"Stealing flour," pipes up the youngest, but he is quickly shushed by the other two.

"I'm Luke Scarlett," says the third. "This is my brother Will." He gestures to the mustached youth. Allan nods; they are close enough in resemblance to be brothers that he should have seen it before. "And that's Benedict. It's alright though," Luke continues. "Master Robin will save us now that he's back from the Holy Land. Dad said so."

Now Luke is the one being shushed.

Allan's ears perk up. If there is a way out of this mess, he's ready to hear it. "Who's Master Robin?"

"Robin of Locksley," Will says. "Our lord."

Allan's hopes fall. He's met enough lords to know they only care about themselves, their land, and their money. "And why should he care a wit about a couple o' thieves?"

"Master Robin protects us," Luke says faithfully. "If he hadn't been off fighting for King Richard, our da wouldn't-a lost his hand."

"How'd he do that?" Allan asks, but he's fairly certain he already knows.

Will and Luke glance at each other. "Poaching," Luke admits. Will's expression could be carved from stone.

"Ah, so like father, like sons, is that it?"

"Shut up," Will snarls. "You don't know us, so don't pretend to."

Allan raises his hands in defense. "A'ight, I din't mean it."

"What're you in for, then?" Will asks. "No, you're probably innocent of all wrongdoing, and this is all just a big misunderstanding, right?"

Allan grins. "Poaching."

Will could wither a lesser man with a look, but Allan's feckless attitude simply can't be stifled.

"Isn't that just the pot calling the kettle black," Will says coolly.

Allan laughs. "I like you, Will." He reaches through the bars, holding his palm out. Will stares at him, bewildered, until he realizes he's meant to shake on it. "We might've been friends, if things were different."

"Right," Will says flatly, grasping Allan's hand briefly before dropping it. "If things were different."

* * *

"Bring out the prisoners!"

They are led down the steps by a contingent of guards. As they reach the foot of the steps Allan breaks to the right, intent to make a run for it, but he only gets a few steps before he is roughly corralled and brought back into line, earning himself a painful wrench to his shoulder for his insolence.

He's been in tight spots before, but Allan never truly believed he'd hang. The others had been so certain their lordling would get them out. When Allan had realized it was the same man who had saved his neck (or rather, his fingers) out in the woods, he'd been willing to gamble on it too.

For the first time since arriving in Nottinghamshire, Allan is afraid.

He glances at the man on the steps. Robin's face is grim. Allan can't help but feel a bit betrayed, even though Robin doesn't owe him anything. Allan has made his living relieving the honest (and not-so-honest) of their purses and coaxing them out of their secrets, which has made him good at sizing up a man's character in a glance. He'd guessed Robin of Locksley to be a man who could not stand by and do nothing. He'd guessed wrong, and now he will pay for it.

The executioner yanks the hood down over his face, and Allan resigns himself to his fate as the noose is looped around his neck. All in all, he's had a good run, he thinks.

"Wait!"

His heart stutters in hope and confusion. The voice rambles on about 'novice novices' and whatnot. Some sort of clergyman, clearly, and for whatever reason he is trying to free the condemned. Allan isn't about to turn away anyone's help, though he'll sneak away from the abbey in the middle of the night the first chance he gets. Whatever else Allan a Dale might be, he's not cut out to be a man of the cloth. Vows of poverty and chastity? No, thank you.

But his heart sinks as he hears the Sheriff order the priest be arrested. He should know better than to get his hopes up. Before he knows it the blocks that seem so sturdy under his boots go out from under him.

The rope cuts into the soft flesh of his neck. He can't breathe. He panics. There's a faint ringing in his ears as he struggles against his bonds, fighting for air, though he knows it is fruitless. There's a commotion in the crowd, a rattle of armor and the startled cries of townsfolk, but it all seems so very far away - nothing is more important than the air that surrounds him but is yet denied to him.

"People of Nottingham!" Robin's strong clear voice cuts through the air, even as Allan is fading . . .

Allan hears the whistle of an arrow and then he is falling, falling, until his boots thud against the platform. Unprepared for the impact, he loses his balance and falls backwards, landing painfully upon his bound hands. The pressure around his throat is lessened, though the knot of the noose is still digging into the back of his head. Someone is coughing, gasping for air, and Allan realizes it is he.

"These men have committed no crime worth more than a spell in the stocks!" Robin's words are followed by the thud of another man falling onto the wooden platform. Allan cannot see who it is; he cannot see anything through the sour-smelling hood over his face.

"Will you tolerate this injustice? I, for one, will not." Two more bodies falling shake the platform, and then Allan feels the noose and hood being pulled off his face, mussing his hair. The townspeople drag him down into the crowd, shielding him from the guards who are trying to maintain order and reclaim the prisoners. Allan looks around wildly - Robin is fighting a group of guards on the steps, the Sheriff is screeching orders to anyone who will listen, though no one is in the commotion.

Someone presses a stolen blade into Allan's hand, and he mutters his thanks. He realizes it is the same man who had embraced Will and Luke so fiercely just moments ago - their father, then. He takes the two younger boys and heads for the gates. Allan looks over at Will, who has somehow gotten his hands on a hatchet. His face is stony.

A pair of guards come at them and Allan brings up the sword to parry.

"This way!" the priest bellows, and Allan wastes no time in heeding his advice. HIs long strides eat up the ground. He can see Will to one side of him, keeping pace, and a glance behind him reveals Robin and his manservant on their heels.

They spot a pair of horses tethered near the gates of Nottingham, as if they'd planned an escape all along.

"Archers! Master, what do we do?"

Robin half-grins, and Allan thinks the man might be as crazy as he is. "Let's give them something to shoot at." He swings up onto the first horse, his servant mounting up behind him. Will is already mounted up and reaching down for Allan's hand. They charge at the line of archers, sailing over them as they stumble over each other to get out of the way. Will is serious, focused on the task at hand - but Allan is giddy from the rush of cheating death. _Two sides of the same coin._

In all the tales his mother told him and Tom, when they were small, the maiden rides into the sunset behind the hero, atop a noble steed. Allan doubts this is what she meant. _Ah well,_ he thinks, holding onto Will to keep from falling off, _it's good enough for me._


End file.
